


Irrational

by Duckgomery



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Human AU, Phobias, Prompt Fic, just Pitch, pitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckgomery/pseuds/Duckgomery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to stay safe, had to stay alive. The world was full of things that could make him hurt and bleed and suffer. He had to avoid all that. He also had to pay the bills.<br/>An average day in the life of Pitch Black, author and extreme-homebody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irrational

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've had written out for a few weeks now, but ind of forgot to upload, whoops.  
> Came from when I bugged my editor to give me a few prompts after suffering a bit of a writers block. The idea was for phobic!Pitch because why not.  
> Yeah, this is my attempt. Tried a bit of a different approach to things, don't know how well it works but yeah, done.  
> Enjoy.

                He wakes and the first thing he does, as he has every morning since moving to this flat, was trace the now ingrained pattern of cracks spidering across the ceiling, with his eyes. He does this for no other reason than the fact that if they are spreading, that compromises the foundation of the roof. If the ceiling is weakening, then there is every chance that if he doesn’t notice any change within the barely there tangle, he’ll wake up one morning to find himself buried under rubble, if he wakes up at all.

                Seven separate fissures and the epicentre no more than fifteen centimetres wide, just as it should be.

                With that task out of the way, Pitch can continue with his day.

                The next step, in every sense of the word, is to work up the courage to slide his feet over the edge of the bed and onto the carpeted floor (The carpets were new in comparison to all the other décor and furnishings, as sparse as they were. There was less chance in tripping over carpet, the surface being more or less flat. Carpet didn’t creak ominously. Carpet didn’t splinter beneath your feet. Carpet was safe-ish).

                He had to be careful, you see.

                For all he knew, there was something lying, waiting, underneath his bed, biding its time for the opportunity to strike him when he was unsuspecting. A sneak-attack. If his feet were injured or incapacitated, he’d be down for the count, seeing as escape would be impossible without their aid. One slash to his Achilles tendon and he’d topple over and down, un-able to do anything but slowly drag himself away from his attacker.

                He had to stop there, take a moment to calm his even more so hectic breathing, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.

                No.

                There was nothing under there, he was being silly.

                The bed was not far enough off the ground to harbour such an assailant.

                Hell, he was lucky if he could get his duster under there, all in the hopes of keeping the bare space beneath, as slight as it was, free of arachnids.

                With a shiver at the thought of those eight chaotically pumping limbs somehow working in unison, he took anxious steps to the hook where he hung his security blanket of sorts.

                Pitch himself was by no means a short man, yet he had the stretch up high in order to retrieve his dressing gown from its metaphorical tower (Hooks were dangerous. If you tripped, you could hit your head on it, or your nose, or your eye. You could even trip, open your mouth in shock at having fallen, and bam, you have the hook lodged through the roof of your mouth, leaving you hanging there like livestock from the cutting room ceiling.).

                With the well-worn fleece encircling him, Pitch calmed down enough to try and brave leaving the room.

                Muttering a mantra of sorts under his breath, he pushes the curtain to the side (doors were nothing but trouble. They get stuck and you get trapped. No escape. Also muffles the sounds of intruders. They were too thick, too heavy, could come of their hinges and crush. Doors were too dangerous, curtains a much safer alternative.) Eventually, he steps out of the threshold and into the tiny corridor which leads to the living room/kitchenette/study.

                On the way he looks into the bathroom, robe pulled tight around him. He couldn’t really do anything without checking every possible hole for a potential intruder (threat?). The bathroom was as tiny and sparse as the rest of the flat, with no possible way for anything to be hidden from view.

                He comes out into the bigger room (no tables, no chairs, they were a hazard, too much could go wrong) and deliberates between what to do next (after checking around, behind and under the solitary couch). He checks (double, triple, over and over) that the surge protectors are in place (Could never be too careful now), before flipping open the laptop and booting it up (Rubber gloves firmly on, better to be safe than sorry).

                Pitch had made some head way in the planning on his latest novel when he heard the tell-tale humming making its way towards his front door (the only door in his flat, not even cupboard doors were permitted).

                He waited for the person on the other side to sing the code phrase that meant that he came alone and wasn’t being forced here against his will, nor did he mean danger (several codes were in place, best to be prepared for any and every situation after all. They changed every few weeks, no pattern there either, just to be extra safe).

                Once the code was sung out (A poor rendition of ‘Mother knows Best’) the secret knock was made.

                Then, and only then, did Pitch slowly place the laptop down, and edge towards the door.

                Peering through the peep hole, he visually confirmed the identity of his visitor, who stood back far enough to offer an almost full body view.

                With two knocks being delivered to the heavily paint coated door from Pitch, and the boy on the other-side put down both his tote bags, stepped back from them, and spun around slowly.

                Affirming that the boy was unarmed, nor was he concealing anything outright, Pitch set to work un-bolting the dozen or so various locks that littered his side of the frame (helped keep dangers out, safer that way).

                It took several more deep breaths before he could work himself up to gripping the handle and turning it, pulling the door open and letting his guest inside.

                This boy, Pitch admits, he is thankful for. Unlike the other interns that his publishers have provided in order to help one of their biggest selling authors stay alive, Jack had stuck around the longest, and not only that, Jack hadn’t judged.

                Even now, Jack was slowly and steadily laying out the contents from his bags out in the open so Pitch could see that nothing malicious was hiding in them.

                To be honest, there wasn’t much, seeing as Pitch refused to allow a few (many) things within his proximity (They were dangerous after all), just a few papers, each stuck inside its own individual plastic sleeve (paper cuts could get infected), a pair of rubber gloves (just like Pitch’s own), two sealed lunch bags, each containing a plain ham sandwich with white bread (to chance of accidentally having an allergic reaction there, you never knew when those things would strike) a few boxes of microwavable meals that Jack had prepared from scratch (Pitch trusted him enough for this task) , three thermos’ (all of which get inspected), and Jack’s tablet (it was much easier to store and do work on there, seeing as Pitch was more than adverse to using paper and pens, both of which could be utilised as weapons for the most part.).

                He nods at the now approved contents and Jack went about what he was here to do, get Pitch writing, and editing while he goes.

                Jack occasionally shatters the now comfortable silence with inane chatter as the two of them work. Jack’s on the couch and Pitch seated on the floor, neither of them being hindered by the gloves they both wear of their hands.

                The boy talks of the weather and what has been transpiring over the news, social media, and the television shows he keeps up with.

                Jack talks about taking walks through the now changing season, doing his best to describe the feel, the colour, the smell of it all, in every lighting and condition he could possibly find.

                The smell of rain, the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, the crisp caress of the wind through unkempt hair, he reports this all to Pitch, a smile free of pity and contempt softly etched across his face.

                The hours tick by, and Jack begins to pack up his things after transferring a copy of Pitch’s work for the day onto his own device (backups are good to have). The boy takes his time as the older man does one of his frequent sweeps of his apartment (always have to be on the lookout for a house intruder), and when Pitch returns to the living area, he’s greeted with the sight of the remaining thermos, along with one of the meals, heated in the microwave in his absence, and Jack leaning nearby on the counter (edges dulled, for maximum safety).

                With a promise to be back the same time tomorrow, and that he may stay later, and bring along one of the movies he’d been raving on about for the past few days, did Jack head to the door, un-latching the series of locks, chains, and bolts, let himself out, and close the door behind him.

                With a final rattle from the other side, a reassurance to Pitch that Jack had remembered to set the lock on the handle before he shut the door, did Pitch step on over and seal the world out once more.

                As he sat on the floor, lukewarm meal and plastic spork in hand, did Pitch realise that the thing he was most afraid of, was the day that Jack would either get fed up with him, or stopped dropping by.

                It was an irrational fear, Pitch was well aware, and as such needed to be squashed, before it became something ridiculous and un-manageable.


End file.
